


A Scroll and a Crown Secret

by Kanthia



Series: These Things Are All Connected [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: DLC, Gen, In-universe crossover, Multiverse, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 21:39:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6924412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanthia/pseuds/Kanthia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Gawain's plaything, in the beginning.</p><p>(Laslow learns Aether)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Scroll and a Crown Secret

**Author's Note:**

> contains spoilers for Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn, Awakening, and the Hidden Truths DLC episodes.

With the army low on morale and badly in need of a change of scenery, Corrin looks away from the invisible kingdom and turns the army north to the Dragon’s Gate, seat of the gateway between worlds. She marches a little uncomfortably, flanked by the pride of Hoshido and Nohr in full regalia, Raijinto and Siegfried burning like the sun and the moon; barefoot and robed only in the splendour of her noble heart, she nonetheless lends a sympathetic ear to Selena, who pushes her way through the cavaliers to her side.

“There wouldn’t happen to be this weirdo named Anna living at the gate, would there?”

Corrin has been there a few times before, and for an exchange of gold was sent to strange and terrifying places, shepherded by an enigmatic woman in red. “Yes, I think that was her name.”

Selena blows a raspberry and falls back.

Chief on Anna’s list of wonders that day is a Deeprealm she calls the Vanguard Dawn -- no connection to the Dawn Dragon, though she chuckles at the very suggestion -- and the company finds itself with a fortress to defend, an endlessly replicating army of invaders, and a difficult battle on a hot afternoon. Corrin divides the army into three flanks and issues commands with whispers; that has always been her style. Xander roars, Ryoma bellows, and the horned dragon appears with a deafening silence in a spray of gray water.

(“This stinks,” Selena says, in the thick of things. “Why can’t we have gone to a beach? Or a hot spring? I could have gotten another yukata.”

“Life’s not fair, is it,” Laslow returns, and earns himself a solid thwack to the head with the hilt of an Armorslayer.)

The battle is won, thanks in part to a brilliant eleventh-hour maneuver -- when the army had found itself surrounded Camilla grabbed Niles by his collar and all but thrown him halfway across the battlefield into the fray -- and after he brushed off the dust and adjusted himself, he noticed a strange scroll where the invaders’ general had once been.

 

* * *

 

It was Gawain’s plaything, in the beginning: he’d devised it after a particularly brutal training session with Zelgius. The two of them struck such an intimidating image side-by-side already, a hero shining like the sun and a general glowing like the moon; Gawain only saw it as the logical next step in developing his repertoire, and Zelgius saw it as another mountain to climb before he could surpass his mentor.

The first time it happened was in an otherwise meaningless border skirmish, a group of Crimean mercenaries causing trouble, but pesky enough that the Four Riders were mobilized to make an example.

(“Nip this in the bud,” Ashnard had said. “Make them cower before Daein’s might.”)

And so, in the sparse grass and flat-leaf woods that he would one day make his home, Gawain strode forth and pointed Ragnell at his foes. It is said that his enemies fell to their knees begging for mercy at the sight of a man glowing like a pillar of fire. And from the sidelines Zelgius stood, watching, sore at how impressed he was, certain this was a feat no human would ever replicate --

\-- until he faced Gawain’s son in Nados Castle, Ike burning with rage like a blue flame. What should have been an easy victory against a fledgeling ranger too big for his britches changed tune when Ike’s gaze went black and something in him started to glow. And when he stepped forth and spoke the word Zelgius had found himself the smallest bit afraid.

(Gawain had called it Sol-Luna; Zelgius, the Nobleman’s Brand. For Ike it was not just the sun and the moon but also the memory of his father, every star in the night sky, a universe made and remade in his sword arm.)

 

* * *

 

Corrin takes tea much like she conquers her enemies: slowly and with great precision. She’d learned years ago that eating slowly made the long, lonely hours pass a little faster, and Xander is sorry for everything she has suffered through.

“Tell me about your retainer Laslow,” she says, meticulously spreading goats’ butter on a steamed bun. To any properly raised Hoshidan or Nohrian such a crossing of culinary boundaries would be treason. “Something about him seems --”

“-- Don’t tell me he’s been flirting with you.”

“Well, he _has,_ but --”

“Corrin, I will --”

“-- Brother.”

Xander shifts in his seat, crosses his arms. “Not much to say, I’m afraid. There were three of them -- Selena and Odin as well -- who appeared one morning in court requesting an audience with Father. He acquiesced, despite the absurdity of the situation.” He sighs. “Father was not so -- changed, back then.”

“Why did you choose him to be your retainer?”

“I did not. Father chose him for me.”

“And you --”  
  
“-- Challenged him to a duel for the honour.”

“How very like you.”

Xander smiles at the compliment and clears his throat. “He fought me like a man who is close friends with death,” he says, gravely. “How he came into so much power while frittering away his time I have no idea, but in that duel he seemed to be -- toying with me, as it was. He speaks little of his homeland and less of his journey here. Perhaps they were some gift from the gods, the three of them. Weapons from the First Dragons in the form of soldiers.”

“His dance is very odd.” Corrin bites into her bun and takes a sip of tea, ponders the cup. “It’s strange. I can’t place it.”

“It looks like nothing I’ve seen in Nohr or Cyrkensia.”

“Azura says it’s nothing like the dances they perform in Hoshido.”

“-- He’s a bit of an enigma and quite a handful, but I appreciate his service. I’ve no interest in soldiers who throw away their personality when asked to serve nobility. What interests you in him?”

“I have a gift for him, I think.”

 

* * *

 

 

For all his skill with swordplay Ike had never gotten a taste for war, and when the whole mess with Asheruna was finished he packed his things and sailed off, into the east, looking for a different land with different gods. He found Akaneia, a land with too many gods to count, where the people curse by saying _gods_ and build shrines to whatever dragons they like wherever they please. That sort of roughness suited him just fine. He built a small mercenary company and recruited taguel and manakete and beorc alike.

Word spread that the aloof, disaffected mercenary, who spoke with a strange accent and could not tell you where he came from, possessed powers beyond that of mortals; that he once slew a god with nothing but his sword and the will to live; that he commanded the heavens; that he slept with taguel. The latter could be forgiven for the strength in him, and warriors travelled from all ends of the continent to witness his power and beg for his instruction.

Ike, for all his kindheartedness, felt too old to be worshipped, tired of all the attention. He retreated to a small cabin in a forest in the easternmost reaches of Valm and spoke to very few, lived out his days in quiet contemplation: never homesick, but a little nostalgic. He took two students. Norrenin had impressed him with his youth and zeal and passion, and Sifan with her single-minded focus.

 _I’ve always thought that the desire to leave a legacy was for people who were scared of death,_ he told the two of them, as he made preparations to disappear for the last time. _Me, I’m just happy I made it this far._  


* * *

The army has a camp in a little pocket between moments, a valley so thrumming with dragons’ veins that one can hear the life pulsing in the earth if they listen well. Out of the ground Corrin had summoned a whole city, a walled inner court with shops and pleasantries, an outer borough with glades and training grounds and a small pond sparkling with rare ore.

It’s a hot Hoshidan summer beaming on them and Laslow is deep in concentration, trying to translate the new lightness in his feet into his mother’s language. When the thought of asking women to tea no longer distracts him he spends his scant free hours in the graveyard behind the prison; he’s always been most comfortable dancing beside gravestones.

Somebody clears their throat behind him. Laslow misses a step, twists in the wrong way, falls most unceremoniously onto his ass.

“Xander said I might find you here.”

“Milady! I thought --” Something bright pink blooms in Laslow’s chest. “-- Lord Xander knows?”

“Well, he told me to start looking in all the local taverns, and to try the graveyard after that. I figured I would drop by here on my way out.” She strikes a charming figure, barefoot in her regalia with the Yato at her side, but buried deep is the biting accusation that she will never mean to him what Lucina means to him. “Um. Would you mind putting your shirt back on?”

His cheeks burning with embarrassment and a terrible secret, Laslow collects himself and dusts himself off, grabs his shirt and throws it on. “I meant you no disrespect.”

“No disrespect was felt.” Corrin kneels down, lifts Laslow’s shield and hands it to him. A princess kneeling before a commoner! He straps it on as quickly as he can manage.

“So, to what do I owe the honour of your presence?”

“The enemy general dropped a scroll which I believe contains knowledge of some sort of martial skill. I was wondering if you would like to use it.”

She passes it to him, and he holds it out to inspect it. It’s a strange-looking tome, a scroll bound in leather with a red case. It stirs Laslow’s memory in a way he can neither place nor name.

“Milady, I mean no disrespect, but shouldn’t something this rare be saved for one of your sisters or brothers?”  
  
“This is my choice.” She closes his hand around it and pats it, gently.

“A gift, then! I’m honoured.”  
  
“If you say so.” She half-smiles, drawing attention to her strange, slitted dark red eyes. She’s growing scales where most people grow crows’ feet, dragonskin instead of wisdom lines. Something about that look in her screams _Grima_ with such force that he recoils in horror before he can stop himself, deeply disturbed.

“-- Laslow?”

“I --” He clears his throat. “-- Apologies, milady. I just remembered -- I have tea with Selena in two minutes -- you know how she feels about being inconvenienced --”

And before she can stop him he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

Jarrod the Cruel had known it, and Exalt Norrenin before him. Having no interest in revealing crown secrets to princesses Jarrod had ignored Emmeryn and beaten it into his four-year-old son. To Chrom, then, Aether was like the Brand of the Exalt, which burns on his sword arm and urges him to drive Naga’s fang into his enemies: the legacy of a failed king and father.

And yet still Chrom had the foresight or perhaps the gumption to write enough down that Lucina could pick up the pieces. She’d figured out most of it on her own, buoyed only by her blood and the desperation to hold her world together; in those early days of Grima’s reign, the only thing that got them out of their holes and hiding places to face another horrible day was the hope bolstered by seeing Lucina shine with a bright blue flame.

(He’d started dancing for that same reason.)

 

* * *

   


“ _Shit_ ,” Selena whispers, between clenched teeth. They’re hiding, the three of them, behind the smithy in hopes of not being overheard. “It’s Aether, isn’t it.”

“Aether is for princesses,” Laslow moans. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Use it, of course.”

“Odin, I can’t just --”

“If Lucina gave you this, would you --”

“-- Of course, but --”

“-- As much as it kills me to admit it, Odin’s right.” Selena takes the scroll from Laslow, sets it on the ground. “Nobility’s nobility, and whether or not they have a Brand you do what they tell you to do. Corrin has some kind of master plan, doesn’t she? Maybe this is part of it.”

Laslow shifts back on his haunches. “I’m torn,” he announces.

“Over a scroll?”

“Over this war. We came here with a job to do, but when it’s over --”

Of course the three of them know all about packing up and setting off; they did it twice already, once to a different time, once to a different place. Here they send their children off to grow up in the safety of the Deeprealms, far from the horrors of war, and Siegbert had arrived so gentle and unassuming for it. The thought of leaving it all grows a little more difficult each day.

 

* * *

 

Among many other things Robin is skilled at telling legends from lies, and when she marches the company far to the east chasing a hidden village and a radiant hero, the world gives them a battle for it. It’s been a hard few months on all of them and a hard few years on the children, but the day is warm and the sky is deliriously blue, and when the army stops its march at one end of the valley to do inventory and enter formations, there’s something in the air that’s almost excitement.

It’s odd to the children, who had always associated battle with war and the endless pain of counting casualties. No bards had ever dared to sing the Tragedy of the Prince and the Fell Dragon in their presence. Before them Robin strides among the soldiers like a lover, or a friend, and this is a truly absurd world.

Robin is always cautious about splitting the army, preferring something like a phalanx; she always searches for high ground; her ability to use the shape of the land to her advantage is unparallelled. The army bristles with swords and picks apart the enemy one by one, the fliers screaming like the wind, the heroes shining like the sun, the knights, like the moon; the swordsmasters fall upon their enemies like rain; Robin and Morgan shout single-word commands and loose upon the enemy a sweet-smelling shower of petals. Priam stands in the thick of it all, watching, anticipating.

Then Lucina strides forward with the Falchion and the air seems to still around her, and when she speaks the word _Aether_ something like a smile ghosts Priam’s lips.

( _Look there at the Einherjar, Ike_ , Priam had told Inigo, over a dinner of bear meat and awkward conversation between men with a surprising amount in common. _He’s a lowborn, but he commands the heavens with his sword. Anything is possible with dedication and training._

 _I’d never put much stock in the whole blood thing,_ Ike had returned. _Still, you remind me of someone._ )

 

* * *

 

Time has a strange habit of folding in on itself, and the Dragon’s Gate is one such example: they slip through a crack and suddenly they’re back in Ylisse, and there’s something about the smell on the wind that makes Laslow want to sink to his knees and cry. There’s no time; Corrin is using her commander’s voice. There are Vallites on the loose. Some noble folk and their retainer could use assistance.

 _Maybe the end isn’t the end_ , Laslow thinks, listening for the strained sound of music, warming his feet on familiar soil. He hops from foot to foot, finding his mother’s rhythm. _Maybe the end is just the beginning and the beginning is the end._ Chrom has that dumb confused look on his face and maybe just over the hill their shared fate is sleeping, waiting, passed out under a tree.

Laslow readies his sword and it’s not Falchion or Ragnell or Siegfried or the Yato but it’s _his_ sword, and that’s good enough. Takes a step, then another, breaks into a run, launches himself at the enemy; he’s no battle-hardened warrior, just a strange collection of techniques and strategies and thoughts he’s picked up over the years; he’s not homesick, that’s just the pain of being alive for so long! He twists in the air and drives his sword forward, feels it bloom in him: not the sun or the moon but the wildfire of the will to live, the hope that never dies, the only thing harder to cling to than despair.

 

* * *

 

(It’s a quiet evening and there’s the smell of dinner cooking on the wind and someone is holding their child. It’s Olivia with Inigo and it’s Elena with Ike and it’s Laslow with Soleil and it’s Liza with Marth and it’s Anri and it’s Altina and it’s you, dear Reader, tied together in a story with no beginning or end. Night falls and with it comes the majesty of the night sky, the great Aether.)

**Author's Note:**

> dark ebay show me the affordable copies of fire emblem: path of radiance
> 
> (Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Find me yelling incoherently about Chrom on [tumblr](http://kanthia.tumblr.com/).)


End file.
